


Mischief Night

by Waywarder



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cunnilingus, F/F, Halloween, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), Light Dom/sub, Top Crowley (Good Omens), Vaginal Fingering, Warlock Dowling is a Little Shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:54:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27221554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waywarder/pseuds/Waywarder
Summary: It comes as no great surprise to Crowley to discover that young Warlock is ultimately more fond of tricks than he is of treats.Despite Aziraphale’s angelic influence, the lad is prone to a playful sort of naughtiness. Pranks, practical jokes… Warlock has a knack for all of it. Fortunately, Crowley is quite certain she can use this predeliction for mischief to her distinct advantage.Crowley does not always relish her own demon-ness, but she cannot deny a particular draw to the lifestyle around Halloween. When the rest of the world submits nearly entirely to the ghoulish and the ghastly, she feels more like she belongs.More than belongs, really.At Halloween time, Crowley feels that she can reign.For the Ineffable Wives Gift Exchange! Thank you to EveningStarcatcher for beta-ing!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 59
Collections: Ineffable Wives Exchange 2020





	Mischief Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MulaSaWala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MulaSaWala/gifts).



_October 30._

It comes as no great surprise to Crowley to discover that young Warlock is ultimately more fond of tricks than he is of treats. 

Despite Aziraphale’s angelic influence, the lad is prone to a playful sort of naughtiness. Pranks, practical jokes… Warlock has a knack for all of it. Crowley will never forget a particularly marvelous occasion involving a French ambassador and an exceptionally deployed toad. 

Fortunately, Crowley is quite certain she can use her charge’s predilection for mischief to her distinct advantage. 

Crowley does not always relish her own demon-ness, but she cannot deny a particular draw to the lifestyle around Halloween. When the rest of the world submits nearly entirely to the ghoulish and the ghastly, she feels more like she belongs. 

More than belongs, really.

At Halloween time, Crowley feels like she can _reign._

The Dowling Halloween party is to be an especially lavish affair. Crowley rolls her eyes at the thought of it. Human adults ruin the spirit of Halloween. She’d much rather be out in the glory of the crisp, cool October air, among the Trick or Treaters, causing as much gleeful chaos as she can manage before retiring back to a certain bookshop for the night. She wonders what costume of her own would most thoroughly scandalize Aziraphale. 

The evening before the festive occasion, Nanny and Sister Francis are bickering (as usual) about what Warlock’s costume ought to be for the party. They are nearly nose to nose in their frustration with each other while their charge zooms around his room, more than mildly out of his mind on some Halloween Eve sweets.

“You’re being utterly impossible, my dear,” Aziraphale huffs, a white-blonde curl slipping free from its confines as she stamps her foot.

Crowley is doing all she can not to smile. Not to give the game away just yet. This is all part of it, after all. 

“He’s going to be a devil, Sister,” Crowley insists once more, as coolly as she dares.

“He will be a perfect angel!” Aziraphale argues right back. Oh, it’s such good fun to get Aziraphale worked up like this. Pink is working its way marvelously across all of that gorgeous creamy skin of hers. 

“Warlock, dear,” Crowley drawls, never once breaking eye contact with Aziraphale. “What would you like to be for Halloween?”

“I’m the Devil!” Warlock exclaims, emphasizing his point by knocking over a sloppily constructed tower of blocks.

“There,” Crowley allows herself the thinnest smile. “The young master has spoken.”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale murmurs under her breath, agitated enough to break character. “This is highly inappropriate. And entirely besides the point of our mission here!”

She’s right, of course. They really ought to be cooperating and getting Warlock costumed as something sort of normal. 

But it’s Halloween. Crowley feels it down to her fire red painted toenails. There’s to be mayhem and chaos in the air and oh, wouldn’t it be great fun if she could convince Aziraphale to let her halo down for the night and join in the excitement with her?

Aziraphale can have her way at Christmastime. 

“I’m the Devil!!” Warlock suddenly screams again, kicking a stuffed bear across the room in his reign of terror. He watches the bear fly and then turns and fixes his eyes on Aziraphale and Crowley.

“I’m the Devil,” he says again and, fuck, Crowley can’t help but be a little proud of him. “And you have to do as I command!”

With surprising (perhaps even supernatural) strength for a child, he catches them off guard and shoves them with one good solid push into his open closet. Before Aziraphale can register what’s happened, the door slams shut and the click of a lock is heard. There is the pitter patter of little Antichrist feet as Warlock scampers away from the closet, from the room. 

“Warlock! Dear!” Even in her moment of surprised distress, Aziraphale does not bang frantically on the closet door. She knocks terribly politely. In the dark of the closet, Crowley stares hungrily at Aziraphale’s fine, smooth knuckles. It’s a stupid part to be fond of, really. Something as small as knuckles. But every bit of Aziraphale is so utterly, stupidly perfect. 

“What’sss your hurry, angel?” Crowley lets the hiss slip out. She can help it, but she doesn’t want to. 

The closet is a tiny, cramped space, filled to bursting with toys and games. To keep themselves from being jabbed in the ribs by boxes and wooden weaponry, Crowley and Aziraphale are already quite close to one another. Crowley can smell her, that faint, ever-present tea and old book perfume of her. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale gasps and Crowley drinks down the sound of it. “We must get out of here at once! This is highly inappropriate.”

“You’ve already said that tonight, angel,” Crowley points out, stepping in closer to Aziraphale.

“We can’t just leave young Warlock unattended! We’ll be out of jobs and then where will we be?”

And Aziraphale has a point, she usually does. It’s a little annoying. But Crowley is nearly drunk on the possibility of Halloween and she isn’t going to let the threats of Heaven, Hell, nor Harriet Dowling stop her tonight.

“D’you know what tonight is, Aziraphale?” Crowley asks, sidling up even closer to the angel.

“It’s October 30, Crowley. Don’t be stupid.”

“It’s called Mischief Night, angel.”

And Crowley hears Aziraphale’s breath hitch at that and Crowley doesn’t fight the wide grin that overtakes her face. It’s always immensely pleasurable to watch Aziraphale figure things out. She’s so clever, the cleverest soul Crowley has ever known. It’s part of why she loves her so much. But when it comes to what’s staring her right in the face, sometimes the angel can be a bit thick.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale starts, a bit of a warning on her lips now.

“Why, it’d practically be against the rules,” Crowley purrs, her fingers sliding slowly up Aziraphale’s arm, feeling her warm skin through the fabric of that dreadful smock. Crowley wants the horrible thing off of her, discarded to the floor, thrown in the ocean perhaps. 

“Against the rules to what?” Aziraphale breathes, stepping a bit closer herself now.

“Not to get into some trouble.” Crowley’s fingers land under Aziraphale’s chin, not clutching yet, not holding. Giving Aziraphale a last chance to back out if this really isn’t something she wants.

“I do like to follow rules,” Aziraphale confesses, her chest pressed against Crowley’s. There’s nowhere else to go. 

“I know you do, darling,” Crowley says before seizing Aziraphale’s chin and dragging her forward into a crushing kiss.

Aziraphale moans into it immediately and Crowley leaps at the opportunity to slide her tongue into the angel’s mouth. Crowley drags herself away just long enough to whisper fiercely into Aziraphale’s ears:

“You have to be quiet for me tonight, angel, yeah?”

Aziraphale nods, the tiniest whimper escaping her lips.

“There’s a good girl.”

And Crowley kisses her again, threads her fingers through that soft, beautiful hair, pulls at it a little. She grins even wider as she hears Aziraphale swallow back her moans of pleasure. Crowley loves these moments. These visibly fraying threads of Aziraphale’s tight, buttoned-up, heavenly essence, revealing the truth and depth of her wants. It’s breathtaking. 

“Excellent,” Crowley whispers again, kissing and biting and licking at the shell of Aziraphale’s ear.

“Crowley, we can’t,” Aziraphale pants. But Crowley’s hand is already under Aziraphale’s skirt now, is already sliding its way up her soft thigh, is already working its way to the core of her and, _fuck._ The angel is practically dripping with want. 

_For me,_ Crowley thinks and feels dizzy with it.

“We can,” Crowley corrects Aziraphale and it is a command. She slides her fingers against Aziraphale’s slippery Effort and Aziraphale claps a hand over her own mouth to keep herself quiet.

“Oh, but we _shouldn’t,_ ” Aziraphale protests again in between gasps as Crowley presses just one finger inside of her. 

And they shouldn’t, it’s true. But Crowley feels ferocious tonight. She is a monster under the bed, she is a thing that goes bump in the night, and tonight belongs to her. Still, she is terribly in love with the angel squirming and writhing beneath her touch and so:

“Color, angel?”

“Green, darling, _green._ ”

Crowley drops to her knees and slips her head beneath Aziraphale’s skirt before the second “green” is out of her mouth. She darts out her tongue, snake-like, to taunt Aziraphale and the angel nearly sobs above her. 

“Ssh, pet,” Crowley whispers, her breath hot against Aziraphale’s sex. She can feel Aziraphale nodding above her, can feel the angel’s entire corporation trembling as she prepares to be entirely taken apart.

Crowley’s tongue is brutal against Aziraphale, immediately firm and wet and absolutely everywhere. She licks and sucks as though her life depends upon it, losing herself within Aziraphale. Within her scent, her taste, her shaking body. 

“Oh, fuck,” Crowley hears Aziraphale barely whine, and she is giddy. She brings two fingers to Aziraphale’s folds and slips them easily inside of her, stroking her at the same time she licks her mercilessly.

Crowley can’t see Aziraphale’s face, but she imagines the angel with her hands still pressed tightly against her own mouth. Maybe she’s biting down on those perfect, stupid knuckles to keep herself from crying out. Crowley grins against Aziraphale, licking even more fervently as she listens to Aziraphale’s muffled moans and gasps.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale dares to squeak above her.

Crowley plunges her tongue into Aziraphale alongside her fingers and it’s all over. Aziraphale slams her hand against the wall behind her. 

When Aziraphale comes, it is a glorious thing. Crowley drinks in every sensation of her, fingering her through her orgasm.

“Come on, angel,” Crowley growls, drawing her shining mouth away but not her fingers. “Come again.”

“Crowley, I can’t.”

“You will.”

As Aziraphale spasms around her fingers a second time, Crowley is suddenly gleefully reminded of the game “7 Minutes in Heaven.” Heaven, definitely not. 7 minutes, perhaps not. But 7 of something else…

“Again,” Crowley commands.

And so Aziraphale does.

After Aziraphale finally comes down from Lucky Number Seven, Crowley fixes them both with a quick snap of her fingers. She gets to her feet and dusts off her skirted knees. Aziraphale is slumped against the shelf of board games, chest heaving. Crowley snakes an arm around her waist and pulls her against her. 

“Happy Mischief Night, Aziraphale,” Crowley murmurs into her ear, the lingering taste of angel as sweet on her tongue as any piece of Halloween candy.

As though on cue, the closet door suddenly springs open and there is Warlock, giggling and looking terribly pleased with himself.

“You can come out now,” he declares. “Because I say so.”

Aziraphale accepts Crowley’s hand as they step together out of the closet. Aziraphale looks at Crowley, her eyes big and beautiful and a little perplexed. As though she isn’t quite certain what just happened. She opens her mouth as if to say something, but then snaps it shut again, gives an adorable little nod, and then hurries to get out of Warlock’s bedroom. Crowley can’t help herself. She feels thrilled to have rendered her chatty little angel utterly speechless. 

Crowley can’t resist one last bite before Aziraphale disappears.

“What’s he going to be for Halloween tomorrow night, Sister?”

Aziraphale whirls around in the doorway. Her eyes are blazing, furious. Crowley clucks her tongue.

“Sister?”

“The Devil, I suppose,” Aziraphale says through gritted teeth.

“The Devil!” Warlock claps his hands together, happily.

“You two will be a perfect pair,” Aziraphale sniffs before turning on her heels and marching out of the room. Crowley smiles after her. Oh, she’ll be getting her revenge for this one, Crowley knows. She’s quite looking forward to it. 

“Did I do a good job?” Warlock wants to know once Aziraphale is gone.

Crowley scoops him up into her arms, laughing a little as she does.

“Oh, my dear, you were perfect.”

“And I can have as much candy as I want tomorrow?” Warlock tilts his head to one side, deceptively adorable. 

“And then some,” Crowley agrees, tapping the boy affectionately on the nose. 

“You’re the best, Nanny.”

“I know, dear.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
